You: it is 2:10 am
Me:  Eastern Standard Mystical Time, yup...
You: why are you up, writing?
Me: the drugs wore off
You: *** the drugs?
Say it ain't so, kiddo?
Me: yup, I did engage
with some strong stuff
ce soir, the woman too,
and she is drowning in her dreams.
Easy and cheap,
scored some us some................
Asian Fusion
Thai Food, Indonesian small plates...

You: idiot!
Me: just answering your question
You: so where is this poem, shaman?
Me: You!
You: Me?
Me: yup.
You are my early morning poem,
which I have entitled Notification: You!

Notification

I am deeply unsure.

Am I notifying you,
or am I notifying myself?

Lost command of my
native language,
the emotions too strong,
Blue Java
the color of my word blood,
strong swirling,
uncontaminated by cow's milk,
but by cows jumping over the moon,
who have come to give me gifts of
Notifications.

Hey ****** ******,
The Cat and the fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed,
To see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon

Perfectly clear to me.
I am the Spoon,
You are the Dish.

(Shaman, Shaman, hey man,
you still sound drugged,
we urgent need some clarifications!)

When I wake up,
uncertain about a slew,
a portmanteau
of important life~things,
(Example: when should I
Capitalize a word,
a life, a me, a You?)

there are strangers,
Strangers still,
yet strangers no more,
sending me uncoded messages
intended to decode me,
Notifications,
they are called,

and they
Explode me.

capsules of comments
that encapsulate me,
emasculate my speaking abilities,
reduced to rolling in the gutter,
guttural cries to emit and utter,
man, I got friends I never met,
and that's ok
we just notify each other
thinking of you
and no more words necessary

life is groovy...

when I was a kid
the graveyard across town
the one my father rests in
was significantly smaller
decades later it is quite big
and growing
because time is not slowing
and neither are we
where ever we are going
does not matter
because in the end
we become a spec scattered
across the land
and what if instead of burial plots
we were buried with seeds
that grew into beautiful things
we could save the bees
or the oxygen we breathe
what if as we die we repopulate rain forests
instead of taking up land people need?

The literature is in the leaves.
In my reading there are red spots
regardless of the page I choose.

Those with paint
of other colors
ripped me or are broken.

Look at them down the river,
made boats that do not float.

But I trust.
I trust in that child
that will find my Santa María.

And the day that I see him
being the captain and author
who scores down the chronicles of what will happen.

they tell her that they like her new blouse
they like her shoes with the holes
the skirt hanging on her waist
the bow on her head screaming youth
but does anyone like her heart?

Night is a witch in disguise.
When the playful sun joins hand with it's faithful blue and falls to the other side, the dark has come out to play.
It is her turn to run wild.
Clouds from her crystal ball ooze from it's glass, finding way to it's victims.
Omniscient to our every move, she understands our weaknesses.
The enticing allurement drips from her finger tips.
We are offered vices mostly in her power hours.
She's mixed our fates into a cauldron, laughing at our petty emotions.
And as she laughs - I think it's funny how they say we can't see in the dark, yet people reveal the most in the spell of the night.
Nobody understands the ways of the eve.